


True Colors

by orphicsend



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: (NOTE: i added a scene two days after posting oops), (nothing explicit tho), Blood and Violence, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Lesbian Character, Childhood Friends, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Racism, Sarcasm, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex, also there's fluff at the end, au where they're the same age, coming to terms with sexuality, questionable playground games, shootsecretsanta18
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-27 21:44:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17169959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphicsend/pseuds/orphicsend
Summary: 1990“What's your favorite color?”Sameen doesn't have to look up to recognize the voice. Sam – the other Sam – has appeared out of nowhere like she always does and is now standing outside the sandpit with her blonde boyish haircut and a creepy smile plastered to her face.“Don't have one,” she answers truthfully, and digs a deep X into the sand with a piece of wood that she found. It's hollow and dry, like everything in the South. She erases it again, the hot sand grazing her small palm. She watches as individual grains escape her fingers.“What do you mean?” Sam lets out a signature maniacal chuckle and tilts her head.“What I mean is,” Sameen says, aggressively pulling out brown blades of grass and wilted daisies and throwing them into the pit in front of her, “that I don't have one.”





	True Colors

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fulmentus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/gifts).



> (more) TRIGGER WARNINGS: mention of throwing up, actual throwing up, mention of weight loss, mention of weight, food, also a dog dies sdjfjdk sorry rocky (it's a peaceful death tho)
> 
> also, "maman borzorg's special vases" is a reference to vases made out of malachite, a persian green mineral. :-)

_1990_

 

“What's your favorite color?”

 

Sameen doesn't have to look up to recognize the voice. Sam – the other Sam – has appeared out of nowhere like she always does and is now standing outside the sandpit with her blonde boyish haircut and a creepy smile plastered to her face.

 

“Don't have one,” she answers truthfully, and digs a deep X into the sand with a piece of wood that she found. It's hollow and dry, like everything in the South. She erases it again, the hot sand grazing her small palm. She watches as individual grains escape her fingers.

 

“What do you mean?” Sam lets out a signature maniacal chuckle and tilts her head.

 

“What I mean is,” Sameen says, aggressively pulling out brown blades of grass and wilted daisies and throwing them into the pit in front of her, “that I don't have one.”

 

Sam shrugs and climbs up the slide. “Mine is pink. It could be yours too,” she offers.

 

“I don't _want_ one. Besides, it's bad enough that we share a name.”

 

Sam is doing the thing with her lips that Sameen interprets as “sadness”. Doesn't she know Sameen had just been joking? (Well, like 80% joking.)

 

But her eyebrows are up, not down.

 

Although there's a possibility that Sam knows Sameen had mostly been joking, there's also a possibility that she doesn't. Sameen ponders.

 

She had been asked the same question too many times in her life, and she'd never had an answer. Partly because most of the time, she didn't care enough to think of one, and partly because when she did, she couldn't think of one either.

Colors – there is nothing special about them, yet everyone seems to have an opinion. It's not like Sameen's colorblind, she sees the differences, she just doesn't get why they are important.

 

(Then again, it's like that with most things.)

 

But it is important to Sam, so it is important to Sameen too, in this moment. Because unlike it might seem to other kids, they actually like each other. Their way of showing affection is just less... conventional.

 

The first time they'd met, they'd gotten into a mudball fight because of a disagreement about peanut butter. The second time, Sam had tied Sameen to the roundabout and spun her until she was puking her guts out in the bushes. In exchange, Sameen had chased her down the street with a dead cockroach in her hand and dead anger in her eyes.

 

(If it weren't for the fact that there never seemed to be anything else in them, Sam would almost have been scared.)

 

The third time, they had gotten into a sand fight in this very sandpit after Sam had stolen Sameen's purple plastic shovel.

 

They consider each other best friends.

 

“I gotta go, mom's waiting,” Sam declares after a while. The sun has slowly been disappearing behind rooftops and chimneys and the sky has turned into a shade of warm orange that makes people stare out of their windows in awe.

 

Instead of sliding down, Sam jumps from the very top of the slide. The dry chalk throws up red dust as she lands on all four, for a moment looking like a hunter out for prey. But then she stands up, and she's Sam again, sweet, crazy Sam, with her boyish hair and creepy smile.

 

Sameen watches from her perch in the sandpit as she makes her way towards her green bike, carrying wood and stones and pieces of glass and other treasures, using her shirt as a makeshift basket. Green! That's a good color, right? Sameen thinks about grass and beer bottles and sour watermelon flavored bubble tape. She thinks about Maman Borzorg's special vases and Baba's uniform.

 

She grabs a handful of pebble and starts throwing the small stones one by one, hard, missing Sam's head by an inch or two each time. She flinches, but doesn't duck or protect herself with her arms, indicating that it is human reflex rather than fear. Sam's hair flips when she turns around, already seated on the tall bike. She's smirking.

 

Sameen gives her a commendatory nod.

 

“It's green.”

 

Sam's smirk grows wider as she swings her legs over the bike and starts pedaling up the hill full of verve, and Sameen throws a few more rocks, just for good measure.

 

* * *

 

The next evening, when they're sitting in their usual spots, Sam pulls out a ripped green piece of fabric with pearls and buttons sewed onto it. She points at the pink look-alike tied firmly around her wrist and grins, waiting for Sameen's reaction avidly.

 

“Best friends forever”, she announces with a wide smile.

 

Sameen has a suspicion of what this is. A friendship bracelet. She had seen other girls in her class exchange them (not boys; never boys) and supposed it was a method of affection.

 

She knows she considers Sam her best friend, even if she might not understand that concept like the other girls. It's the “forever” that makes her feel uneasy. She knows she's different. Some people would describe her as scary and psychotic, others as possessed and unpredictable. She doesn't correct them, though – they're not wrong, after all. She knows all that.

 

What she doesn't know is what it is that makes Sam come back to the playground every day.

 

(She knows she'll stop one day, so she doesn't dwell on it too much.)

 

But Sam is still there, sitting in front of her, cross-legged and wide-eyed, waiting for Sameen's response.

 

“Uh... thanks,” she says, unsure of where to look or what to do.

 

(Sam understands, doesn't question it.)

 

She gently takes Sameen's hand to put on the bracelet for her and something shifts inside of Sameen. It's neither positive nor negative, nor particularly intense, Sameen just knows it's _there,_ and Sam's touch must have triggered it – whatever _it_ is.

 

( _It_ feels like a silent tornado of every color in the rainbow, Sameen thinks, and she wants it to last forever and never come back at the same time.)

 

 _It_ passes after a second or two, and everything is back to standard again. Sameen pulls back her hand. She decides she wants to put it on herself.

 

Sam understands, doesn't question it.

 

* * *

 

Grass grows. Leaves fall. Children laugh. Seasons pass.

 

Neither of them know who stopped coming first.

 

* * *

 

  _1996_

 

“You got light?”

 

Tomas' dirty laughter echoes in the dimly lit alley.

 

“What are you doing here, gooky girl?,” he asks and forcefully spits onto the ground.

 

“Enjoying the sunset, what else would I be doing on such fine night? Cheers!” She raises her bottle and finishes the remaining sips of cheap beer with four big gulps.

 

“Very funny, Shaw,” Tomas laughs again, more dryly this time, and takes a few steps towards her. His hair is full of gel and he smells like sweat and cologne. It would almost be attractive if it weren't for the fact that he is an annoying white boy.

 

“Yeah, very funny, Shaw,” Bobby chimes in hesitantly, voice cracking in the process. Tomas turns back to him and shakes his head, indicating that Bobby should leave the talking to him. Bobby scoffs awkwardly and stuffs his hands into the pockets of his bulky jeans.

 

Two more guys, Romeo and Jeremy, descend from the dark, smiling viciously. Their gaze is diluted but aggressive, their walk unsteady and incoherent. Shaw can tell they're out for a fight.

 

“So it's gonna be that kind of a party, huh?,” she says, throwing the glass bottle in their vague direction.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, don't you know that's bad for the environment?,” Tomas drawls, obviously content with his own hilarious remark.

 

The other boys snort. “Bad for the environment!,” Bobby cackles again, holding his sides from laughter. The rest decide to ignore him.

 

“Are you some kind of a fucking Greenpeace activist now?”

 

Jeremy goes “Oooh snap!” in the background and Tomas sends him a warning look, visibly getting more and more frustrated. Shaw has so suppress a smirk. How cute.

 

“Hey, watch it, gooky girl. Wouldn't want something to happen to your miserable little stray.” There's a threat below the lightheartedness of his tone.

 

Shaw falters. But Rocky is at home, probably drooling onto her pillow right now. Rocky is safe. They can't hurt him now. All Shaw has to do is assure her position with fist and muscle, and they never will.

 

She jumps off the monkey bars, landing on both feet with ease.

 

“What did you just say, Koroa?” She stares at him, eyes narrowed.

 

“You heard me, Shaw. He's already rotting anyway, why do you even–“

 

Shaw's fist lands on his eye before he can finish his sentence. His body staggers but doesn't fall, his brain not affected enough by the alcohol, so it seems. Wouldn't be fun if it was anyway.

 

The two other boys help him back up to his feet – Bobby watches them awkwardly – and start to slowly but surely capture Shaw in a circle. The smell of alcohol and sweat intensifies, arms wearing ink drawings and swatch watches reach out for her, and Shaw's adrenalin level shoots up.

 

Romeo is the first one to attack her, but she pushes him to the ground with ease. Next one to go is Jeremy. He tries to grip her by the elbow but she is faster and kicks his legs away under his body, making his knees buckle. His bones make a questionable sound when he falls and he is holding his knee protectively, a pained expression on his otherwise witty and annoying face. Two deceased, one left – two left if you count Bobby, which Shaw doesn't.

 

She turns to Tomas. It looks like he had just been patiently waiting for her to do so, the shit-eating grin is back on his face, and Shaw _really_ wants him to lose a tooth or two or three. She stares him dead into the eyes.

 

“Whatcha gonna do now, gooky girl? You might be strong but you're all by yourself, just like your dying dog. Nobody wants to love a dirty stray,” he provokes.

 

Shaw can feel her heart rate increasing, her palms getting sweaty, blood shooting up to her ears. Human reflex.

 

She's gonna make him beg for his life.

 

She strikes out and hits – _hard._ At first it's a woman-to-man fight, but it's only a matter of time before Tomas is on the ground, nose bloody, arms raised in surrender. Shaw grins, doesn't stop the kicks and punches.

 

His “friends” have bundled off, so now it's just her, him, and his sweet cries, like music to her ears. Blood squirts into the air and his voice is becoming hoarse. Shaw could do this all day.

 

It's too linear, too easy, and it only takes a second of negligence for two hands to strangle her neck from behind.

 

_Fuck._

 

She tries to free herself, tries to grip the person by their arms and throw them over, with little success. Her air tubes are cut off and her vision's getting blurrier and blurrier...

 

Just as she is about to lose consciousness, the grip around her neck loosens, and her lungs start sucking in air violently, stertorously. She's heaving.

 

When she regains her vision, she can make out the shape of a person standing in front of her with crossed arms. Shaw blinks. The person grins widely.

 

“Long time no see.”

 

* * *

 

Shaw stands up and wipes off the blood on her palms onto her jeans. She tightens her ponytail, examines her neck – decorated with blue and green spots now – and processes the situation. Tomas' and Bobby's bodies are laying in a pile a few feet away from her, probably unconscious.

 

The person – a girl – is still smirking, her head tilted adoringly. Shaw takes a closer look at her smug face. Her eyes widen.

 

“Sam.”

 

“Kiss kiss to you too,” she coos absentmindedly, rummaging in her pink backpack. Her face lights up as she fishes out a half-empty water bottle and hands it to Shaw. She accepts it, drinks it greedily, water dripping down her sharp jawline and bruised neck.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Sam shrugs. “Look like you need it, after almost getting strangled to death by the sleeping beauty over there,” she simply states, tilting her head towards the passed out Bobby. Shaw scoffs.

 

“Remember, when fighting multiple opponents, the most important thing is to keep one of them in the way of the others. Self-destruction, if you take it that way. Oh, and I go by Root now. You can have your name back.”

 

“It was never yours to begin with anyway,” Shaw counters automatically.

 

“I'm six days older, so actually, it was.” Six fucking days.

 

“But it fits better for me.”

 

Root laughs. Not maniacally like she used to, it's short and happy and bitter at the same time, and if it weren't for the lack of illumination, Shaw would have to hide her smile.

 

“Yeah,” Root says, smiling at the smell of fresh blood. “I agree.”

 

* * *

 

Bishop's small – comically small. Still, they had mostly managed to not cross ways in the past six years. (And at the few times they did, they simply pretended they didn't.)

 

It's probably like that because of the fact that Root's a night owl, she likes to keep to herself, only interacting with other people if absolutely necessary. And Shaw's not exactly a social butterfly, either.

 

Root is taller and thinner than Sam, her hair longer and darker, the spark in her eyes gone and replaced by something Shaw can't quite make out.

 

Her hair is longer, but still too short for a _lady,_ as most people in town would say if you'd ask them. That alone wouldn't be too bad, but add combat boots, Tori Amos cassettes and the fact that she had never shown even the slightest of interest in a young man her age, and it had soon become pretty clear to everyone: Samantha Groves is a dyke.

 

Shaw's not homophobic – she's the last person to give a shit about someone not fitting the norm –, just simply curious. She knows she likes guys, she knows she likes girls too, but what she doesn't know is what that makes her. She doesn't think about it too much. It's a preference, a state of mind, nothing that needs to be discussed.

 

She's not sure what it is that makes her bring up the topic.

 

“They say you're a lesbian,” she says, dry grass crunching under her feet as they stray around town aimlessly.

 

Root huffs. “They're not wrong.”

 

The sun is about to rise in half an hour or so, paining the skyline in a warm orange, the kind of orange that would make people stare out of their windows in awe if the entire town wasn't asleep.

 

Shaw turns to look at her. “You fuck girls?”

 

She nods nonchalantly. They're about to enter a graveyard that reminds them of too many ghosts to give a second thought to, when Shaw feels all kinds of colors shift inside her.

 

“What's that like?”

 

Now it's Root who turns to look at her. She's clearly amused, derisive even.

 

“Well at first... you caress her face,” she starts, and the use of pronoun sends a shiver down Shaw's back. She nods shortly.

 

“Oh,” Root says, voice not louder than a whisper, “I'm not sure if you understand. Like this.”

 

They're standing between two gravestones, not quite in each others arms but with a significant amount of contact. Root's fingers start tracing the outlines of Shaw's face softly, only ever hesitating at her lips for a brief moment. Eyelids flutter as Root stops to look at them, wondering. Shaw feels the colors again.

 

“Then... you start kissing her,” she continues, and she does. The kiss is short and chaste and the sound of mouths parting is fucking sweet. Shaw brings her hands to Root's face and presses her onto the cold stone. She chuckles.

 

“Then…”

 

* * *

 

The sun is beaming onto yellow grass and waterless lakes and two girls have just finished fucking in the middle of a Christian graveyard.

 

One of them, the shorter one, is putting on her shirt, and the other one, the tall one, is searching for something in her pink backpack like she always is.

 

“You're a fast learner, Sameen. Are you sure you haven't done this before?,” she teases, watching over her shoulder as the other girl is getting dressed.

 

“It's Shaw. But you're not that bad yourself,” she answers with confidence, wondering why her hands are shaking. Must be a human reflex.

 

“We should do this again sometime. You know, there aren't many- oh, here it is!”

 

She turns around with a wide grin and hands Shaw a small strip of paper. A phone number in watery black ink is written onto it hastily. Shaw raises an eyebrow.

 

“For your dog, Rocky. I heard he's not doing so well.”

 

“Where'd you hear that?,” she wants to ask, but she gulps down her question instead.

 

She'd found Rocky two months ago, in the middle of an extinct highway an hour away from town, trotting around an empty car with a broken front shield and an effused airbag. He'd been all skin an bones, paws and nose bloody and body too bruised to make it through another day – or so you would think.

 

Granted, Shaw had taken him home on her bike and taken care of his wounds. She'd fed him, bathed him, given him a warm place to sleep. He'd been getting better slowly but surely until one of the neighbors' little wastes of air decided it would be funny to sneak tulips or azaleas or some shit into his food.

 

It had been going downhill ever since.

 

So it's no wonder that people in town have noticed. Their interest is rather superficial, though. Shaw knows that random people stopping her in the corner store to ask her how he's doing is more so that they have something to tattle about during Sunday brunch rather than genuine concern.

 

(She can almost imagine it, three or four upper-middle class elderly women sitting around a table covered with a flouncy white tablecloth, coffee and cream and organic cookies in a fancy ass bowl, talking about their husbands Richard, Charles and Henry. One of them brings up the poor dying puppy of the Shaws, and they all shake their heads in unison and agree that something should be done there, before going back to discussing golf or bingo night.)

 

Shaw gulps again. “What is this?”

 

“A phone number,” Root answers. “Of a vet in Karnes City. Doctor Adams, but tell her I sent you and you'll be allowed to call her Mina. She owes me a favor.” She winks awkwardly.

 

Shaw doesn't know what Root had done or why Mina owes her a favor but she really also doesn't want to. She ponders whether or not to accept the offer, but remembers that this is Rocky they're talking about. And Rocky is her friend.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Root smiles.

 

(Shaw takes Rocky to Mina's office the following day. She's paralyzed for a second when Shaw mentions Root's name, but then nods slowly and takes them down the hallway into a dimly lit room. She examines him, prescribes three different kinds of pills and tells Shaw to come back in five day periods. When Shaw asks about costs, Mina laughs briefly and tells her not to worry about that.

 

Rocky dies of age five years later in his sleep, peacefully, a few months after Shaw had started med school. She doesn't cry but her textbooks seem more gray than usual.)

 

* * *

 

_2014_

 

“ _If the worst comes to pass... if you could give Shaw a message?”_

“ _I think she already knows._ ”

 

She looks at him with glassy eyes. He thinks Shaw knows, which means that he knows, and it doesn't matter to him. Her throat tightens.

 

* * *

 

_2016_

 

“ _Come out, come out, wherever you are,”_ Root mutters, her side pressed tightly against the tree. She raises her gun as the man is close to shooting, unlocking the safety. She's about to fire but someone else is quicker. The man sinks to the ground with a grunt.

 

“ _What?”_

 

She turns her head to where the bullet came from. Another person grips her wrists and pushes her down. Root gasps.

 

“ _Root?”_

 

“ _Shaw.”_

 

* * *

 

  

It takes two hours to convince Shaw it is okay to go home with her. Root pays the taxi driver generously and offers to help Shaw out of the vehicle. She shakes her head but mutters a soft “thanks” for only Root to hear. They walk from the parking spots to the tall building – one of Finch's safehouses – and Shaw can't stop looking around, turning her head from left to right and from right to left every few seconds, eyes tired and haunted. Her walk is different, Root notices. Cautious – more cautious than it had been before –, paranoid, even, like a sick puppy limping behind its owner.

 

They make it to the second floor and take off their clothes and shoes, and now they're here, sitting on the couch in a respectful distance, facing each other.

 

“Long time no see,” Shaw says, looking at an object on the coffee table that isn't there.

 

Root smiles slightly, and they sit in comfortable silence until Shaw's stomach growls.

 

“Oh.” Root stands up and makes her way towards the fridge across the room. She takes out some whole wheat toast, crunchy peanut butter and jelly with a justifiable expiration date and starts making the sandwich.

 

"You hungry?,” she calls over her shoulder.

 

Shaw blinks. She doesn't understand the question.

 

Root returns with a PB&J a few minutes later – two thick layers of peanut butter, a thin layer of jelly, bread cut into two rectangles, just like Shaw likes it. She sets down the plate in front of her and sits back down.

 

“For me?,” she asks hesitantly.

 

“Of course, sweetie.”

 

Shaw takes the sandwich and admires it for a minute, like it's the best gift Root could have given her. She watches it, smells it, opens it, touches it, closes it, and bites down with gusto. Root wishes she had offered it to her sooner.

 

It's an hour later when they're lying under warm blankets in the cold bedroom and Shaw asks Root to leave on the small light on the nightstand. Shaw is lying on her stomach and Root on her side, propping herself up with her elbows, watching Shaw's breathing get calmer and calmer.

 

When she thinks she's asleep, she lays down her head and inches closer to Shaw – she doesn't close her eyes, not now, not when she hasn't seen her in what seems like a lifetime.

 

“I don't have it anymore,” Shaw mumbles into her pillow.

 

“Hm?,” Root asks, tucking the hair behind her ears. “Can you repeat that, sweetie?”

 

Shaw sits up. “The friendship bracelet. I threw it out. Can I get a new one?”

 

Her voice is quiet and monotonous, her mouth forming the words softly.

 

“Sure,” Root says slowly and nods, watching Shaw's back move up and down. “Do you want it in green?”

 

“No. My favorite color is brown now.”

 

Root tilts her head. “Brown. That's unusual.”

 

Shaw shrugs.

 

“I'll get you one tomorrow,” Root promises, “but for now, let's get some rest.”

 

She guides Shaw down again, her hand placed on the small of her back. Both of them know sleep won't be happening, but at least they can close their eyes and feel the other person's body next to their own.

 

Root pulls up the thick blanket and puts her arm around Shaw's body, making sure she is warm and comfortable. She can feel Shaw's breaths on her hair; it stirs, tickling her shoulder. She starts rubbing soft circles on the small of her back, and Shaw relaxes under her touch.

 

New York is freezing. The room is muggy. The air is humid. Two warm bodies are pressed against each other.

 

Shaw reaches around to pull her closer and hugs the taller woman's midriff awkwardly. Root smiles at the soft gesture and kisses the top of Sameen's head, and the colors are there, and she understands.

**Author's Note:**

> this was a lot of fun to write, i hope y'all liked it! leave a comment if you want to make a girl smile :-)


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